Small abstractions: Intimate and expansive

Artists have been painting large scale canvases since the late Renaissance, and these paintings are filled with scenes depicting religious parables, historical events and occasional moments of ordinary life. They were intended to inform as well as show off the technical mastery of the artists as they rendered complex architectural space, the landscape, and scenes replete with human activity. (For the ultimate in monumental Renaissance works, see Tintoretto's Paradise-- a whopping 30 feet high x 74 feet wide).

(You might be wondering where I'm going with this--just where are the small abstractions mentioned in the heading?  Read on.) 

COURBET  Allegory: The Artist's Studio, 1854   11'8" x 19'6" inches

 
As abstraction began to take hold during the mid-20th century, the focus of the newer monumental works, now devoid of concrete subject matter, shifted towards color, gesture, and emotion. Accompanying this was a change in the experience for viewers, who were no longer reading a painting to be informed, but rather to be transformed. What became mythic was the experience of the color or gesture, rather than the historical moment. The source of wonder was the depth of the spiritual charge of the painting, rather than the skill of an artist in rendering lifelike details.

POLLOCK    One: Number 31, 1950        8'10" x 17'6"

MARDEN The Propitious Garden of Plane Image, Third Version, 2000-2006    6' x 24' (six panels)

To enter a gallery space lined with enormous paintings can be dazzling, humbling, spiritual, and at times overwhelming. When the paintings are installed with enough room to breathe, when we can view them from far enough away to see them in totality yet not be distracted by other works, it is perhaps possible to enter a meditative state. It is at times possible to have the paintings take over and lose oneself in them. 

But to take in a monumental painting in a single glance, we are often quite distant from it--too far away to simultaneously delight in seeing the painter's hand while losing ourselves in universe of the painting. And when we move closer to see the surface, the subtleties, the marks of the hand, we have lost the totality of the image. We are likely to peruse just a small area of a monumental painting from this intimate distance. Of course, looking at these paintings on a computer screen at a fraction of their actual size completely changes the experience. But you have been there, so close your eyes and recall the experience.

 
And this is where my discussion turns to the beauty of small abstractions, which I often find simultaneously intimate and expansive.  Paintings of this size demand that you lean into them.  Something magical happens when you draw close to a small painting and your entire gaze falls on the image. The rest of the world seems to disappear and the universe of the image is all encompassing. 

 

KLEE   Fire in the Evening, 1929      oil on cardboard     13 1/4 x 13 1/4"

ALBERS    Study for Variant, 1947     oil on paper     9.25 x 12.437"

Your attention rests on the the irregularity of the surface and the most subtle gradations of color. Perhaps you are viewing the painting from the same distance as the artist when it was first painted. Paintings of this size do not allow the artist to hide, so the conversation with the artist begins to feel more direct. The intention behind the work comes through with powerful and concentrated clarity.

REINHARDT    Untitled, circa 1935      gouache on board      5-1/8 x 4-1/8"

SERUSIER     The Talisman, 1888     oil on wood panel    10-1/2 x 8-1/2"

  

DIEBENKORN    Cigar Box Lid No. 7, 1976     oil on board    9 x 7-3/4

You notice marks and underpainting that are only visible because you are standing at most an arm's length from the work. What appeared to be a solid band of color from a few feet away is revealed to be numerous narrow bands neatly stitched together.  And once you are engaged in this dialog with the artist as maker, you linger because there is no need to step back. The entire image is there to hold you. 

BOURGEOIS   Untitled, 2005    Fabric     9-3/8 x 11"

H. MIRANDA WILSON    Time of Night, 2012    oil on panel   9 x 12"

Some small works are incredibly intricate, while others resonate with seeming simplicity. They may be boldly painted or beckon quietly. But they each exert a pull on me that far exceeds their modest size.

FRECON  version o, dark to light, 2008     oil on panel     10 x 8"

SCULLY  Untitled from Ten Towers, 1999    aquatint and etching      image 10 x 4"

Old friends

After an intensive year and a half spent preparing for an upcoming exhibit, I suddenly find myself with time to sit. Be still. And take stock. 

So I've been visiting with old friends, my constant companions in the studio. And with the luxury of time, I've been thinking about how these friendships have sustained me. When I felt dejected and stuck, looking at these paintings helped get me moving again. On the days that I was flying, they seemed to wink in acknowledgment.

Most of these images have been hanging on the studio wall for many years, and several have been with me for decades. How's that for loyalty!  Although new cards periodically show up on the shelf, they are unlikely to dislodge old-timers from the wall. 

During a recent afternoon in the studio, I began thinking about why I found these particular paintings so meaningful. Several, such as those by Vermeer, Manet, and Degas, remind me of the many hours spent in the European painting galleries at the Met Museum when I was in high school and college. I've always loved the Vermeer (A Maid Asleep) because of the light pouring through from the back room, and only recently noticed how the rectangular forms on the right side of the canvas are echoed in the Morandi that hangs above it on my wall. The Manet (The Balcony) offers the exquisite whiteness of the gowns set against the cobalt green shutters. The Print Collector by Degas is filled with corners and squares overlapping squares, and that brilliant white shirt collar.

Morandi entered my life through his etchings. But his paintings have had a profound influence on me, perhaps more so than any other visual artist. I am drawn to the dialogues between the forms and his dogged pursuit of honest representation. 

The paintings of Diebenkorn and Scully began showing up on my wall when my own work was still firmly planted in landscape, years before I had the slightest understanding of why I found their paintings so potent. But they waited patiently until I was ready to begin our conversations. 

 

Marden's Cold Mountain paintings and etchings (After Boticelli) have their place on the wall because of the complexity and intensity of the exploration. And because the paintings prompted me to read some of the poems of Han Shan. 

  



Heilmann's work is a more recent addition to my wall, and it is there to remind me to keep me playing.  Several more add to the mix:  On the wall, below the Vermeer, is a fabric applique by Sonia Delaunay, a Rodin drawing of a dancer, and a piece by Donald Sultan.

 
Now it's your turn. 
What's hanging on your studio wall?  
And what are the conversations?